


A Boring Afternoon

by verellie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:20:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verellie/pseuds/verellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since we started sharing a flat, I really didn't know what to response to this. By this, I meant, his childish behavior and his banal struggles with peaceful days. Usually, I just walked away, not being miffed but afraid that I would lose my sanity if I stayed. I'd grasp my coat and my key. I'd swear to God if Mycroft asked me to take care of this kid again, the big brother had to beg on his knees. I'd walk out of the door hopefully he would soon drop that infantile act. Hopefully, someone would be found peculiarly dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Boring Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this 4 years ago. I just found it on my blog today so I decided I'd share the story here too. It was written before Mary came into John's life so John was dating another lady in this story. There were only two chapters. I hoped you'd enjoy it. Cheers!

 

 

Since we started sharing a flat, I really didn't know what to response to this. By this, I meant, his childish behavior and his banal struggles with peaceful days. Usually, I just walked away, not being miffed but afraid that I would lose my sanity if I stayed. I'd grasp my coat and my key. I'd swear to God if Mycroft asked me to take care of this kid again, the big brother had to beg on his knees. I'd walk out of the door hopefully he would soon drop that infantile act. Hopefully, someone would be found peculiarly dead. Hopefully, Lestrade would hopelessly call.

 

 

According to newspapers, Sherlock Holmes was a hero for he had been solving crimes --- serious crimes. According to me, Mr. SH was solving crimes, in the same time, was craving for those villainies. From my point of view, he wasn't a saviour. Sherlock would become irritated like an old lady in her golden years whenever he wasn't fed any heinous cases for a while. Speaking of cases, he preferred felonies to misdemeanors. He loved the crimes the same way as a flower loved its seeds. He adored the criminals' games as much as the crooks adored their misdeeds. To live ordinarily. Sherlock needed someone losing her beloved or shedding tears.

 

 

No cases week. Mr. self-assured was bored. He was acting childish again.

 

 

Covering his svelte figure with a blanket, Sherlock lied prostrate on the sofa. He had been refusing to eat, causing Mrs. Hudson worry. I doubted he had some rest since he hadn't gone to bed. Underneath the blanket, Sherlock was fully dressed, 24/7 gearing up in case of a possible call from Lestrade or a client regarding someone's misfortune. Alas, no one called.

 

 

Since Sherlock had sulked for two days, I had lost count of the bullet holes in the wall. I also wished I had one in my skull every time he scowled at me, asking if there was any incoming mail regarding a strange case every goddamned minute. If not, he'd lampoon my blog and sink himself into the sofa, pouting like a disrespectful high-school girl having a fight with me - her aggravated dad. All day long, Sherlock had been talking me into losing my temper while I was trying to update my blog. His gibes encouraged me to put the message 'Sherlock Holmes is a real asshole' on my blog but I was matured enough not to. I even hoped today was Monday. If it had been Monday, I would have gone to work. Unfortunately, it was a fucked up Sunday my date took her son to the dentist so I had to sticking with my vexing flatmate. However, so far I managed to not declare war.

 

 

I hated our squabbles. To be more exact, I hated meaningless spats, with him, whom I'd undoubtedly fail to win.

 

 

When I decided I had enough of his insulting comments, I left the living room to give myself some privacy. I sent a message to Linda, my girlfriend, asking if everything was ok. I knew it was a stupid question because, indeed, she should be fine, but I didn't have any better things to do. Linda texted me back telling me she was getting tired of babysitting her son and how much she wanted him to grow up faster. I smiled as I thought we were facing the same problem. I was tired of babysitting the big brat here as well. I wished I could tell someone I wanted Sherlock to grow up faster, too. However, if I would reveal my wish, Linda would be my last choice since she always felt like killing someone whenever I brought up his name. I wouldn't blame her. And I wouldn't blame all of my ex-girlfriends who dumped me. There was only one man to blame for my previously failed relationships.

 

 

I asked Linda out for dinner. She said she would bring her son along.

 

 

As I pushed my phone back in my pocket and turned around, I found Sherlock looking at me. His blue eyes covered with the curly bang were filled with gloomy clouds as if the rain would soon fall on his pale cheeks. It was like he was asking me how I could selfishly have fun while he was suffering from his boredom.

 

 

It wasn't my fault, was it?

 

 

"Ah... haven't broken up with that widow yet... " murmuring in his deep voice, Sherlock turned back to the sofa cushions.

 

 

At least, he remembered that this time I was dating a widow.

 

 

I knew he wasn't talking to me but I answered anyway. "No, Sherlock. Although you were unbelievably rude to Linda the last time she came here, we're still good."

 

 

"Boring couple" he snorted.

 

 

I was fed up with his familiar games. Instead of futilely trying to defend myself or my girlfriend and being led to the edge of slapping Sherlock across his arrogant face, I asked him if he wanted me to go out and murder someone. All for him.

 

 

"No, thanks. If it was you, it'd be dull," he said monotonously to indicate that my idea was absolutely absurd.

 

 

"Why don't you call Lestrade, then?," I suggested.

 

 

"Why should I? He is supposed to summon me."

 

 

"Do you want to watch TV?"

 

 

He faced me, "boooring", then again turned towards sofa cushions, drowning in his obstinate silence.

 

 

I was weary of spoiling him.

 

 

"I'm going out", I said. I knew Sherlock heard me whether he was listening or not.

 

 

And this time, he actually turned his whole body over. "Where are you going?"

 

 

"I'm going to pick up Linda and her son."

 

 

"Why?"

 

 

_Why?_

 

 

Why did he ask me 'why'? I was going to meet my girlfriend. Did I need any reason for that?  I stood still trying to figure out how to answer this weird question while he was looking at me demanding an explanation. Sometimes, Sherlock was like a small child repeatedly asking 'what's this?' and 'what's that?'.

 

 

Finally, I said, "why not? It's sunday. I'm going to have some fun without you."

 

 

Truthfully, I would like to see him pout a bit.

 

 

But he didn't.

 

 

Lying down on his back, he solemnly asked again, "what's fun?"

 

 

Linda once told me that, sometimes children kept asking just because they wanted us to pay attention.

 

 

"What did you do together?" he pushed.

 

 

"Why don't you ask Molly instead?"

 

 

He stopped short, and then frowned. "what's about her? Why are you bringing her up?"

 

 

"Listen, Sherlock," I signed. "Why don't you ask her out on a date? Molly obviously likes you."

 

 

He narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what's behind my advice.

 

 

"If you want to know what I do with Linda, just ask Molly out."

 

 

Sherlock insisted on having an answer. "Can't you just tell me, John?"

 

 

I gave up. Going on a date with Sherlock would be Molly's nightmare anyway.

 

 

"We kiss."

 

 

I felt fatigued already, so I made it short.

 

 

"Boring."

 

 

He gave me a predictable comment, turned his back at me and curled up on the sofa.

 

 

"I will be late," I whispered but Sherlock didn't reply.

 

 

As if he didn't hear me. As if I wasn't here. However, whether he was pretending or not, I didn't care.

 

 

I just walked away, not being miffed but afraid that I would lose my sanity if I stayed.

 

 

I grasped my coat and my key. I swore to God if Mycroft asked me to take care of this guy again, the big brother had to beg on his knees.

 

 

I walked out of the door hopefully Sherlock would soon drop his childish act.

 

 

Hopefully, Lestrade would made a contact.

 

 

Hopefully, someone would be found peculiarly dead.

 

 

Hopefully, my date would keep me busy enough to get him out of my head.

 

 

 

_To be continued._


	2. A Strange Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one after the season two ended in 2012.

 

 

I was on my way home, heading to the 221b Baker street, when I was startled by a loud wailing sound of trouble. I saw a police car zooming along the London's avenue, and then speedily disappeared around the corner. Pedestrians raced behind the trace of the police car with their eyes, some out of curiosity, some full of it.

 

Among the noise of the weeping siren that was haunting the bustling street, I heard the sounds of nervousness, panic and annoyance the nonstop horn called. The whole area, which had been in merciful peace for a week, was suddenly getting noisy all at once. I can't help hoping Sherlock was now dancing with joy.

 

Unable to catch a cab to follow the speedy police car, I trailed the siren to a neighborhood playground surrounding with yellow caution tapes and curious onlookers. Policemen and evidence technicians were roaming the playground. The bushes were wet from the afternoon rain. The soil was muddy and soft.

 

On the damp ground, there was a dead body of a white man with dark brown hair. His facial features were buried in the mud. The pitiful stiff wore a dark-colored jacket, worn out pants and a pair of Nike sneakers. Observing from afar, I assumed he got hit in the back of the head and was deceased. The fresh corpse was lying facedown encircled by tons of anonymous footprints which were left on the surface of the muddy soil probably by cops and onlookers. A young evidence technician, who was not Anderson, was collecting crime scene photographs. He was shooting a photo of a wallet sank in the mud beside the dead body.

 

I found Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan investigating a woman aged around 20 beside a police car. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked terrified but I couldn't see sorrow in her eyes. Donovan saw me first so she told her boss about me. Lestrade suddenly looked my way, nodded his head, allowing me to go to him.

 

"Robbery", The female officer said as soon as I approached them. And Lestrade nodded in agreement.

 

"You're alone today? Where's the freak?" Donovan was harsh as usual.

 

"I thought he might be here, so I came," I told her.

 

"Too bad, he ain't invited to the party."

 

The woman was the dead man's girlfriend. She told the police that her boyfriend had no violence nor drug history. He had started working at a hot dog stand for two weeks and hadn't gotten paid yet. He was killed at the time he was supposed to be at work, in the raining afternoon. The girlfriend, who was working at a cafe at the time, got a call from his boss complaining he didn't show up. Although his wallet was actually taken out and all of the money was gone, she didn't think he carried that much money or any luxurious items that could attract muggers. And she had no idea why he came to the neglected kids playground in the first place.

 

"He might be forced to come here," Donovan guessed, "by a gang of robbers or a gun pointing at him."

 

The girlfriend's story didn't help much. The collected evidences didn't help either. The trace of the afternoon robber was swept away by the afternoon rain.

 

I didn't believe it was a mere robbery. The victim didn't carry much money. He had no reason not to obediently give the robber money. Moreover, if it was just a robbery, why did the robber have to kill him? Why didn't the robber just take the money and let him go?

 

Despite my suspicion, Lestrade decided that this suspicious robbery was a closed case because there weren't suspects nor witnesses and the victim's girlfriend, who seemed to be his only family, didn't feel mournful nor furious enough to keep the cops busy.

 

"Greg, may I take some pictures?" I asked Lestrade for permission. He shrugged and told the young technician to let me join in.

 

I took some pictures using my cellphone and later, headed home.

 

 

 

 

****

 

 

 

 

 

I smelled food as soon as I opened the door. The food was left on the stove while Mrs. Hudson was, in the kitchen, cleaning the mess Sherlock did. She moved her hip around the kitchen as energetically as teenage girls.

 

I cleared my throat.

 

Mrs. Hudson greeted me with a generous smile. "Welcome back," she said. "A bit late, ain't you?"

 

I told her that I stopped by somewhere after work.

 

She waved her index finger at me, and then asked me in the teasing tone. "Went to sweetheart's place?"

 

I shook my head while taking off my jacket.

 

"You didn't go to the crime scene, did you? I heard the police siren awhile ago."

 

"Where is Sherlock?"

 

"In his bedroom", Mrs. Hudson waved her hand in the air, "I called him earlier but he didn't reply."

 

"Is he sleeping?"

 

"I don't know. You should go check on him. He's very weird today."

 

Sherlock Holmes was extremely weird every day and he was the oddest creature I had ever met but it was not necessary to correct Mrs. Hudson. I walked to Sherlock's bedroom and knocked. He didn't reply as Mrs. Hudson said so I just invited myself into his room. The room was slightly dark with a little of soft light spreading from the window. Sherlock was lying on his bed, hiding his phiz underneath the blanket. My flatmate was obviously awake. He stretched his leg when I walked in.

 

"Got any cases?", I asked.

 

He shook his head.

 

"I have something to show you," I told him.

 

He stayed quiet beneath the blanket so I couldn't see his face. But I knew that he was waiting for me to approach. I didn't have the other choice but to step forwards and climbed into his bed. I pulled out my cellphone, open one of the pictures I took at the crime scene, and then slipped it underneath the white sheet that was covering his body.

 

"What did you see in the pictures?",

 

I heard his low voice murmuring.

 

"Boring."

 

I became to hate this word for he had been saying it since as far as I could remember.

 

I thought these pictures would cheer him up but I was wrong. I was awfully wrong to want to cheer him up in the first place. I was terribly wrong to think that after I showed him the pictures, he would dash out in a joyous to solve the crime and finally stop caging himself in bottomless self-destruction. I told him all about the crime scene and what the victim's girlfriend had revealed to the cops. Still, the boring "boring" was his only expressed opinion. I wouldn't bother him anymore, if it was not for my curiosity.

 

"What did you see in the pictures?", I asked again, raising my voice in noticable annoyance. "Lestrade thought it was robbery. I think otherwise."

 

All of a sudden, he got up from the bed and scratched his head with frustration. He almost yelled.

 

"This was not robbery. It was murder. Too tedious. Too tasteless."

 

"How can you..."

 

Before I could finish the question, Sherlock shut me up with a deadening glare. I was stupid to ask anyway.

 

"This man was poor. He didn't carry any money. He haven't gotten paid yet. Then, why was he wearing a brand-new sneakers?"

 

I didn't have a clue. "The robber wanted his sneakers?"

 

"No!" This time, he actually screamed. "He got them from someone."

 

"The one gave him sneakers wanted them back?"

 

"No!" He scratched his head again since my idiocy was starting to get under his skin. "How could you be so blockheaded?! You should have checked the soles!"

 

"The soles?"

 

"A notch cut in the sole."

 

"You mean someone gave the sneakers to the victim with something concealed in the sole?", I raised my brow, "the victim was a drug dealer?"

 

"He was just a small fly in drug dealing system so his task was to deliver whatever tucked in his sneakers. He was killed because he refused to pass it down."

 

"So the murder is another drug dealer?"

 

"Exactly." Sherlock groaned, crinkling his nose "Look for a notch cut in the sole and footprints of anyone who crouched near the feet. You'll find the murderer in no time."

 

I stood up real quick, "I'll call Lestrade."

 

I was almost able to pick up my cellphone from the bed sheet but Sherlock was faster. He pulled up the blanket to cover himself along with my cellphone, curling up and mumbling, "as I said, what a humdrum murder."

 

"Sherlock," I called him.

 

Firstly, he kept silent. I didn't know what he was thinking or considering, however, eventually he asked, "what?"

 

"My cellphone", I requested.

 

My flatmate growled with chafe then reluctantly kicked it out.

 

I managed to grab it before it hit the floor. I frowned at him. Indeed, he didn't see. And I knew so well that it was no use asking for an apology. Why not just sighed heavily and let it go?

 

"I'll call Lestrade. You get some rest."

 

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for me when I got back to the living room. She was drinking coffee and considerate enough to offer me some. I accepted her kindness but I told her I needed to make a call first.

 

"Calling your girlfriend?", she giggled.

 

"No, Mrs. Hudson. I'm calling the cops."

 

"How's Sherlock? He has been so quiet since last night."

 

I didn't come home last night. "Did he eat?"

 

"Not that I recall. He hasn't touched the food I left in the fridge."

 

"Did he come out of his room?"

 

"Once. He asked me a strange question," and then, she laughed pleasantly.

 

I knitted my brows, having no idea why Mrs. Hudson was so pleased that Sherlock asked her a strange question.

 

"Well, what question?"

 

Mrs. Hudson giggled again.

 

"He asked me IS KISSING FUN?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

**THE END**


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